


Gentle

by ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Appendicitis, Feelings!, Fever, Geralt trying to, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier being a great nurse, Sickfic, Some sick Geralt in the beginning but not much, Stomach Ache, TLC, sick jaskier, softttt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22778440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Of_Dresden/pseuds/ClaraCivry
Summary: Jaskier looks after Geralt when the witcher is sick, and he wants to return the favour.Now the bard is isck, and Geralt is trying to be a good nurse... It's awkward. Unnatural.But he will look after his friend and he will be nice while doing so! HE HAS TOHurt/comfort, fluff and angst :)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 353





	Gentle

The fact that it was more difficult to hurt him didn’t mean Geralt didn’t get hurt. He was sturdier than a regular human, modified so he would endure more, but not invulnerable, far from it. And with the years he’d got himself some very determined and powerful who had wanted to see him hurt.

And he had hurt. Plenty.

One of his least favourite things was being impaled. It wasn’t just the impression of watching something that shouldn’t be there cross your body, or the pain around the wound, it was also how your internal organs suffered with the trauma, moved about, complained. His dreadfully slow heartbeat meant it was practically impossible for him to bleed out, but not to pass out. And if he started dislodging, let’s say, a broadsword from his abdomen and pass out in the mid operation then he would lose all his progress and had to start again. And moving something that had stabbed you was pure agony.

But it wasn’t the only agony he’d felt. Poison was a great success among Geralt’s enemies, because they knew they couldn’t get the upper hand, physically, one a one on one fight. So they poisoned his ale, or his horse reigns, or his clothes or his bread, and that way he could die without them having to touch a strand of hair, without having to get close to those muscles. The pain varied with the poison, but it was usually hell. Sometimes it burned, sometimes it melted your insides, sometimes it was acid, spreading through your veins and unmaking you inside.

He also been the victim of fevers, of curses and of many ailments he thought himself immune to. Yet more lies that had been spread about Witchers, and more joy for Geralt, alone in an inn, feeling the world tilt around him spin around him even as he lay in bed because he’d caught some illness he wasn’t supposed to be able to catch. He hated nausea. A lot.

He hated everything that made have to stay in bed, for hours on end, feeling pained and unwell, unable to move, to get out go somewhere else, to do something. No, you were supposed to rest which meant endless hours of nothing but your thoughts to keep you company. Your guilt, your regret. Fevers were also very good at getting out horrible forgotten memories of his worst moments, and made you believe that lethal forces were going to get you when there was no one. More joy.

For years and years Geralt had weathered these storms alone, and it had been hard. One time he was poisoned with hemhold and stayed seven nights alone, shivering, being wrecked by tremors and with nothing and one to distract him from the pain. Just him, alone, gritting his teeth not to scream out. Hell on earth.

But things had changed lately, because he didn’t travel alone all the time now, and quite surprisingly, Jaskier was a more than apt nurse. He would fetch soup, put damp cloth on his forehead, soothe him when he vomited, helped him get clean when Geralt couldn’t do it himself. Jaskier knew how much it calm and pleased Geralt the chamomile, and somehow always had some around when he fell ill. And so Geralt could just close his eyes while the bard carefully spread the chamomile, generally humming a low song.

That was another great part of having Jaskier with him when he was ill: countless songs and stories to distract him from how poorly he felt. When he had a headache Jaskier knew to be, if not silent, low with his singing and talking, and when he had a fever or something similar Jaskier sang lullabies and tender ballads and although being poisoned, or burning up still sucked very much, with Jaskier’s help it wasn’t fucking hell. It just sucked.

And which also sucked was the guilt and the sorrow of feeling unable to reciprocate all of that care.

Because Jaskier was unwell now, he was hopping numbly behind him on Roach and letting out little moans, a couple muffled sobs. This was shit. This was utter and absolute bullshit.

The bard had been quieter yesterday which was already a quite big warning sign on its own. But hey, he might have a less chatty day, or be sleepy. Although Geralt paid attention, he usually didn’t say anything about it. But that had only been the first step.

The next morning Jaskier had been paler, had refused to eat anything for breakfast and there had been an odd flush to his cheeks. Fever. Loss of appetite. Stomach pains. The bard was sick, and Geralt didn’t know how serious it was (he knew more or less what was bad for humans and what not, but he wasn’t a damn healer) and he didn’t know... His first instinct was to tell Jaskier to suck it up and stop complaining, but his friend’s blue eyes were teary and Geralt felt himself malfunction.

He wanted, needed to be there for Jaskier, the way Jaskier was for him, with tenderness and gentle touches, and shushing and all those things... But he didn’t know how, and just trying felt extremely awkward and unnatural.

“Go back to bed, Jaskier, you’re not well.” Damn, had that come out too harsh? It sounded too harsh. “Lay...back in bed, I will get you some soup.”

“No food.” Jaskier muttered as he disappeared back in his room.

No food? Then what could he do?

“Hmmmm.”

He went down and asked about the healer, but apparently he’d left some days ago for a nearby castle and hadn’t been heard from ever since. Great. Just their luck. And there was no mage here, it was just a tiny town. Geralt scoffed and grunted and cursed. But how did that help Jaskier? It didn’t.

When he went back to his friend’s room, Jaskier was made a ball holding his stomach tightly, and even paler than before.

“Has the pain got worse?” Jaskier nodded, silently. Be concerned, Geralt. Be very fucking concerned indeed. The fever was worse, too. “The healer is out of town, apparently. Bad luck for us.”

He went to the bath and took a small towel, carefully dampened it on a basin of water and tried to soak up the sweat. Slow. Gentle. And tender as he knew how to be. He hated the pain in his friend’s eyes, and hated even more not knowing what he could do to make him better.

“Jaskier, do you have any idea of what is causing this?”

The bard shook his head, burying his head on the pillow, holding his stomach tighter.

Geralt was in pain too, just from watching. He sat on a chair next to the bed, feeling helpless.

“Do you want... a bath? Fresh clothes? More pillows? I can get you mine.”

Jaskier half-smiled, but then grimaced again.

“I just want the pain to stop.”

NO no no no no!! He was supposed to just watch and wait it out?? Did he have anything for the pain? Of course he didn’t, he finished everything. And Jaskier was in pain, he was hurting...

“I know this is useless.” Geralt said, face solemn. “But I wish I could take the pain for you. I really do.”

Jaskier uttered a mute “thank you” and let Geralt wipe his sweat again, cool his brow.

He still got worse.

So Geralt put the bard behind him on roach and now they were racing to the next village, to a healer, to a mage, to a cure. And Jaskier was moaning and half crying and Geralt had to do something....

What would Jaskier do?

_“I.... have a friend.....”_ Geralt’s singing voice was probably an offence to the gods, but hey, he was trying. “ _He’s loyal to the end... and he’s sings like the angels... I don’t know how I can rhyme that....”_

Jaskier let out a little laugh behind him. Good.

_“He’s the absolute best... Brings shame to all the rest.... JASKIER!”_

Jaskier smiled despite the pain, buried his head on Geralt’s leather-clad back.

Geralt kept singing. It was a good song, even if he said so himself.

(There were no smiles as they got to the town. They had to cut Jaskier open and hold him down as they took whatever it was that was hurting him) (Geralt had to admit, he’d been frightened, very much so) (Wars couldn’t compare) (You didn’t look at war in the eye and see the agony so clearly)

As Jaskier got better, Geralt used some spare coin to get a lady (midwife she was, but tended to the ill too) to look after Jaskier, and learn to properly care for his friend too. Yes, he knew how to keep himself and others from dying, but was not enough, not any more, not for his friend.

He wanted to be soothing and helpful like Jaskier was. He wanted to be gentle.

And for Jaskier... He could and he would.

_(Yennefer wished she had been there, because maybe she could have healed him and if Jaskier hadn’t been on the brink of death Geralt wouldn’t have composed that song and she wouldn’t be chanting “you know that his voice.... is always the best choice.... Jaskier!” for eternity)_

Who said Witchers didn’t have feelings?

As he had breakfast with the recovering Jaskier, Geralt was glad to be feeling all those things.

He was glad to have something so gentle in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Would love to hear your thoughts! Hope you liked!
> 
> please leave a comment after the beep * Beeeeeeeeep *


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